Return to Me
by ImpishTubist
Summary: On Lestrade's hair, and other serious matters.


**Disclaimer:** I own nothing.

**Notes:** Originally posted to AO3 and LJ in December, 2011.

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><p>"How does this hair of yours work?"<p>

"Hey?" Lestrade looked away from the book that was balanced on his chest and glanced up at John. His head was resting in the doctor's lap, and he had been slowly drifting off while John's fingers carded through his hair. He'd read the same paragraph in the book five times now, and it had yet to sink in.

"Your hair," John repeated. "It's _inexplicable_. It's like...it's like it's gotten bored and tried to wander off your head."

"Oh...kay," Lestrade said slowly. "I dunno. Guess it's always been like that. Got it from my da, mum always said."

"That right?" John murmured, fingers brushing over Lestrade's forehead. "Seriously, though, it's as though your hair decided that gravity was too dull to be bothered with."

"Mm." Lestrade had returned to his book, and was in the process of trying to figure out why the main character was being accused of murder. His mind must have wandered several pages earlier than he thought.

"It's as though it had a row with your scalp and is now leaving in the most disorganized manner possible."

"Um..."

"I am _convinced_," John went on, "that it must wait 'til you're asleep and then texts everyone you know for a surprise orgy. There is no other explanation for the way it looks when you wake in the morning."

"Oh?" Lestrade said, flipping back to the previous chapter and scanning the final lines. Huh. He didn't recall _that_, either. "Well, tell it that next time, it doesn't need to wait 'til I'm asleep."

"Is that right?" A finger tugged his earlobe; he winced. "Didn't think orgies were your thing, Inspector. Had I been aware of this fact, though..."

"Nah." Lestrade gave up on his book, setting it aside and pushing himself up on his elbows to look at John. "Don't need an orgy. Don't need anything other than you."

John ducked his head until their lips met. Cold fingertips pressed against his jaw, and Lestrade kissed a trail from John's lips to the patch of skin just behind his ear, the one that always made John's breath hitch. His stubble scraped across the soft skin; John didn't appear to care.

"I can't imagine life without you, Johnny," he murmured suddenly against the shell of his partner's ear, sobering instantly as the scent of John's skin - _fresh soap, tea, sunshine_- assaulted his senses. It'd been a close call today, and if not for Sherlock's quick reflexes - quicker, he hated to admit, than his own - John would be lying in the morgue rather than in Lestrade's bed. He pulled back to look at him, trying to commit to memory the peaks and valleys of his face. It wasn't the same; he never could quite manage to hold John's face perfectly in his mind. The image he conjured up in his memories paled in comparison to the one he saw nearly every week.

And what would happen if that mental image was all he ever had to go on for the rest of his life?

John said nothing for a moment, eyes roving across Lestrade's face, expression unreadable. Then he pushed his partner down and straddled his hips; Lestrade brought his broad hands up to grip John's torso, thumbs pressing into the skin just under his ribcage, stroking gently. John placed his hands flat on the mattress on either side of Lestrade's head and bent over his partner, whispering kisses across his face, brushing cracked lips over his cheekbones and eyelids. John's dog tags slipped from the cotton tee he was wearing; Lestrade caught them in one hand and twirled the chain around a finger.

John drew back as much as the chain allowed, blue eyes meeting wet brown ones, and said softly, "And you don't have to imagine. I'm not going anywhere."

Lestrade tugged the chain, pulling him close and kissing him soundly. "Just - come home to me, yeah?"

He knew John couldn't promise that, anymore than he could promise the same. But he'd had a scare today - they all had - and sometimes just hearing the words was enough. The intention was always there - neither _wanted_to leave the other, and each would fight until his very last, if he had to, in order to return to his partner's side.

"Always, Greg," John said. He traced a finger along Lestrade's brow. "I'll always come home to you."

xxxx

Final Notes: the description of Lestrade's hair participating in an orgy is credited to Sidney Sussex. The description of his hair getting bored and wandering off his head came from an anonymous comment on the kinkmeme. The gravity and scalp ones are mine.


End file.
